I turn my attention to Alec Kincaid now. Helena’s husband stands by the gaping hole in the ground. His hands are fisted at his sides and his head is bowed. I wonder if he’s angry or saddened by his bride’s sinful death. It’s difficult to know what’s going on inside his mind, for he always keeps his emotions carefully masked.
It doesn’t matter to me what the Kincaid is feeling now. He’ll get over her death, given the passage of time. And time is what I need, too, before I challenge him for my rightful place.
The priest suddenly coughs, a racking, aching sound that turns my attention back to him. He looks as though he wants to weep. I stare at him until he regains his composure. Then he begins to shake his head. I now know what he’s thinking. The thought is there, on his face, for everyone to see.
The Kincaid woman has shamed them all.
God help me, I must not laugh.
Chapter One
England, 1102
They said he killed his first wife.
Papa said maybe she needed killing. It was a most unfortunate remark for a father to make in front of his daughters, and Baron Jamison realized his blunder as soon as the words were out of his mouth. He was, of course, immediately made sorry for blurting out his unkind comment.
Three of his four daughters had already taken to heart the foul gossip about Alec Kincaid. They didn’t much care for their father’s view on the atrocity, either. The baron’s twins, Agnes and Alice, wept loudly and, as was their particularly irritating habit, in unison as well, while their usually sweet-tempered sister Mary marched a brisk path around the oblong table in the great hall, where their confused father sat slumped over a goblet of guilt-soothing ale. In between the twins’ noisy choruses of outrage, his gentle little Mary interjected one sinful tattle after another she’d heard about the Highland warrior who would be arriving at their home in a paltry week’s time.
Mary, deliberately or nay, was stirring the twins into a full lather of snorting and screeching. It was enough to try the patience of the devil himself.
Papa tried to give the Scotsman his full defense. Since he’d never actually met the warrior, or heard anything but ill, unrepeatable rumors about the man’s black character, he was therefore forced to make up all his favorable remarks.
And all for naught.
Aye, it was wasted effort on his part, for his daughters weren’t paying the least attention to what he was saying. That shouldn’t have surprised him, he realized with a grunt and a good belch; his angels never listened to his opinions.
The baron was terribly inept at soothing his daughters when they were in a state, a fact that hadn’t particularly bothered him until today. Now however, he felt it most important to gain the upper hand. He didn’t want to look the fool in front of his uninvited guests, be they Scots or nay, and fool he’d certainly be called if his daughters continued to ignore his instructions.
After downing a third gulp of ale, the baron summoned up a bit of gumption. He slammed his fist down on the wooden table as an attention-getter, then announced that all this talk about the Scotsman being a murderer was nonsense.
When that statement didn’t get any reaction or notice, his irritation got the better of him. All right, then, he decided, if all the gossip turned true, then mayhap the Scotsman’s wife had been deserving of the foul deed. It had probably just started out as a proper thrashing, he speculated, and as things had a way of doing, the beating had gotten a wee bit out of hand.
That explanation made perfectly good sense to Baron Jamison. His comments gained him an attentive audience, too, but the incredulous looks on his daughters’ faces weren’t the result he’d hoped to accomplish. His precious angels stared at him in horror, as if they’d just spotted a giant leech hanging off the tip of his nose. They thought him daft, he suddenly realized. The baron’s weak temper exploded full measure then, and he bellowed that the sorry woman had probably sassed her lord back once too often. It was a lesson that his disrespectful daughters would do well to take to heart.
The baron had only meant to put the fear of God and father into his daughters. He knew he’d failed in the extreme when the twins started shouting again. The sound made his head ache. He cupped his hands over his ears to block out the grating noise, then closed his eyes against the hot glare Mary was giving him. The baron actually slumped lower in his chair, until his knobby knees were scraping the floor. His head was bent, his gumption gone, and in desperation, he turned to his faithful servant, Herman, and ordered him to fetch his youngest daughter.
The gray-haired servant looked relieved by the order, nodding several times before shuffling out of the room to do his lord’s bidding. The baron could have sworn on the Holy Cross that he heard the servant mutter under his breath that it was high time that order was given.
A scant ten minutes elapsed before the baron’s namesake walked into the middle of the chaos. Baron Jamison immediately straightened in his chair. After giving Herman a good glare to let him know he’d heard his whispered criticism, he let go of his scowl. And when he turned to watch his youngest, he let out a long sigh of relief.
His Jamie would take charge.
Baron Jamison realized he was smiling now, then admitted to himself that it just wasn’t possible to stay sour when his Jamie was near.
She was such a bewitching sight, so pleasing to look upon, in fact, that a man could forget all his worries. Her presence was as commanding as her beauty, too. Jamie had been endowed with her mama’s handsome looks. She had long raven-colored hair, violet eyes that reminded her papa of springtime, and skin as flawless and pure as her heart.
Although the baron boasted of loving all his daughters, in secret, Jamie was his pride and joy. It was a most amazing fact, considering he wasn’t her true blood father. Jamie’s mother was the baron’s second wife. She had come to him when she was nearly full term with her daughter. The man who’d fathered Jamie had died in battle, a bare month after wedding and bedding his bride.
The baron had accepted the infant as his own, forbidding anyone to refer to her as his stepdaughter. From the moment he’d first held her in his arms, she had belonged to him.
Jamie was the youngest and the most magnificent of his angels. The twins, and Mary as well, were gifted with a quiet beauty, the kind that grew on a man with time and notice, but his dear little Jamie, with just one look, could fairly knock the wind out of a man. Her smile had been known to nudge a knight clear off his mount, or so her papa liked to exaggerate to his friends.
Yet there was no petty jealousy among his girls. Agnes, Alice, and Mary instinctively turned to their little sister for guidance in all matters of significance. They leaned on her almost as often as their papa did.
Jamie was now the true mistress of their home. Since the day of her mama’s burial, his youngest had taken on that burden. She’d proven her value early, and the baron, liking order but having no gift for establishing it, had been most relieved to give Jamie full responsibility.
She never disappointed him. Jamie was such a sensible, untroubling daughter. She never cried, either, not since the day her mama passed on. Agnes and Alice would have done well to learn from their sister’s disciplined nature, the baron thought. They tended to cry over just about everything. To his mind, their looks saved them from being completely worthless, but still he pitied the lords who would someday be saddled with his emotional daughters.
The baron worried most for his Mary. Though he never voiced the criticism, he knew she was a might more selfish than was considered fashionable. She put her own wants above those of her sisters. The bigger sin, however, was putting herself above her papa.
Aye, Mary was a worry, and a mischief-maker, too. She liked to plow up trouble just for the sheer joy of it. The baron had a nagging suspicion that Jamie was giving Mary unladylike ideas, but he never dared voice that notion, lest he be proven wrong, and fall from grace in his youngest’s eyes.
Yet even though Jamie was his favorite, the baron wasn’t completely ob
livious to her flaws. Her temper, though seldom unleashed, could ignite a forest fire. She had a stubborn crook in her nature, too. She had inherited her mama’s skill for healing, even though he’d specifically forbidden that practice. Nay, the baron wasn’t pleased with that inclination, for the serfs and the house servants were constantly pulling her away from her primary duty of seeing to his comforts. Jamie was dragged out of her bed during the middle of the night quite frequently to patch up a knife wound or ease a new life into the world. The baron didn’t particularly mind the nighttime calls, as he was usually sleeping quite soundly in his own bed and was therefore not inconvenienced, but he took grave exception to the daytime interruptions, especially when he had to wait for his dinner because his daughter was busy tending the injured or sick.
That thought made him sigh with regret. Then he realized the twins had quit their screeching. Jamie had already quieted the storm. Baron Jamison motioned to his steward to refill his goblet and leaned back to watch his daughter continue to weave her magic.
Agnes, Alice, and Mary had rushed over to their sister the moment she entered the room. Each was trying to tell a different version of the story.
Jamie couldn’t make any sense out of their comments. “Come and sit with Papa at the table,” she suggested in her husky voice. “Then we shall sort through this new problem like a family,” she added with a coaxing smile.
“’Tis more than a mere problem this time,” Alice wailed, mopping at the corners of her eyes. “I don’t think this can be sorted out, Jamie. Truly I don’t.”
“Papa’s done it this time,” Agnes muttered. The younger twin dragged out one of the stools from under the table, sat down, and gave her father a fierce glare. “As usual, this is all his fault.”
“This trickery ain’t my doing,” the baron whined. “So you can quit your frowning at me, missy. I’m obeying my king’s command, and that be that.”
“Papa, please don’t get yourself upset,” Jamie cautioned. She reached over to pat her father’s hand. Then she turned to Mary. “You seem to be the most in control. Agnes, quit your whimpering so I may hear what has happened. Mary, will you please explain?”
“’Tis the missive from King Henry,” Mary answered. She paused to brush a lock of pale brown hair over her shoulder, then folded her hands on the tabletop. “It seems our king is most upset with Papa again.”
“Upset? Mary, he’s bloody furious,” Alice interjected.
Mary nodded before continuing. “Papa didn’t send in his taxes,” she announced with a frown in her father’s direction. “The king is making an example of our papa.”
In unison the twins turned to add their glares.
Jamie let out a weary sigh. “Please go on, Mary,” she requested. “I would hear all of this.”
“Well, since King Henry has married that Scottish princess . . . What is her name, Alice?”
“Matilda.”
“Yes, Matilda. Lord, how could I forget the name of our queen?”
“’Tis simple enough for me to understand how you could forget,” Agnes said. “Papa’s never taken us to court and we’ve never had a single really important visitor. We’re as isolated as lepers out here in the middle of nowhere.”
“Agnes, you’re straying from our topic,” Jamie announced. Her voice was strained with impatience. “Mary, do go on.”
“Well, King Henry seems to think we must all be wed to Scots,” Mary stated.
Alice shook her head. “Nay, Mary. He doesn’t want all of us wed to Scots. Just one of us. And the barbarian gets to pick from the lot of us. God help me, it’s so humiliating.”
“Humiliating? Whoever is chosen will certainly be going to her death, Alice. If the man killed one wife, he’s bound to kill another. And that, sister, is a little more than just humiliating,” Mary pronounced.
“What?” Jamie gasped out, clearly appalled by such talk.
Alice ignored Jamie’s outburst. “I heard his first wife killed herself,” she interjected.
“Papa, how could you?” Mary shouted her question. She looked as if she wanted to strike her father, for her face was flushed and her hands were clenched. “You knew the king would be angry with you for not paying your taxes. Did you not think of the repercussions then?”
“Alice, will you please lower your voice? Shouting won’t change this situation,” Jamie said. “We all know how forgetful Papa can be. Why, he probably just forgot to send in the tax money. Isn’t that the way of it, Papa?”
“A bit of the way of it, my angel,” the baron hedged.
“Oh, my God. He spent the coins,” Alice said with a groan.
Jamie raised her hand for silence. “Mary, finish this explanation before I start shouting.”
“You must understand, Jamie, how difficult it is for us to be reasonable in the face of this atrocity. I shall, however, endeavor to be strong, and explain it in full to you, for I can see how puzzled you are.”
Mary took her time straightening her shoulders. Jamie felt like shaking her, so thin had her patience worn. She knew it wouldn’t do her cause any good, though, for Mary liked to drag out her comments, no matter what the circumstances. “And?” Jamie prodded.
“As I understand this, a barbarian from the Highlands is coming here next week. He’s going to choose one of the three of us—Agnes, Alice, or me—to be his second wife. He killed his first wife, you see. You aren’t included in this, Jamie. Papa said we were the only ones named in the king’s letter.”
“I’m certain he didn’t kill his first wife,” Alice said. “Cook says the woman killed herself.” Alice crossed herself.
Agnes shook her head. “No. I believe the woman was murdered. Surely she wouldn’t kill herself and spend eternity in hell, no matter how terrible her husband was to her.”
“Could she have died by accident, do you suppose?” Alice suggested.
“The Scots are known to be clumsy,” Mary said with a shrug of her shoulders.
“And you’re known to believe every bit of gossip you hear,” Jamie interjected in a hard voice. “Explain what you mean by ‘choosing,’ Mary,” she added, trying to keep her expression from showing how horrified she was.
“Choose for his bride, of course. Haven’t you been listening, Jamie? We have no say in the matter, and our own contracts for marriages are all set aside until the selection has been made.”
“We’re to be paraded in front of the monster like horses,” Agnes whimpered.
“Oh, I almost forgot,” Mary rushed out. “The Scottish king, Edgar, is also in favor of this marriage, Jamie. Papa said so.”
“So the lord might only be doing the bidding of his king and might not want the marriage either,” Alice said.
“Oh, Lord, I hadn’t thought of that,” Agnes blurted out. “If he doesn’t want to be wed, he’ll probably kill his bride before he even reaches his home, wherever in God’s name that is.”
“Agnes, will you calm yourself? You’re screaming again,” Jamie muttered. “You’re going to pull your hair out of your scalp if you keep tugging on it so. Besides, you cannot know if you speak truth or fancy about the circumstances of his first wife’s death.”
“His name is Kincaid, Jamie, and he is a murderer. Papa said he beat his first wife to death,” Agnes advised.
“I said no such thing,” the baron shouted. “I merely suggested—”
“Emmett told us he threw his bride over a cliff,” Mary interjected. She drummed her fingertips on the tabletop while she waited for Jamie’s reaction.
“Emmett’s only a groom and a lazy one at that,” Jamie returned. “Why would you be listening to his stories?”
Jamie took a deep breath, hoping to calm her queasy stomach. Although she fought against it, her sisters’ fear was becoming contagious. She could feel a shiver pass down her spine. She knew better than to voice her concern, though. Bedlam would erupt again.
Her trusting sisters were all staring at her with such hopeful, expectant looks on their face
s. They’d just put the problem in her lap and now waited for her to come up with a solution.
Jamie didn’t want to fail them. “Papa? Is there some way you can placate our king? Can you still send the taxes to him, perhaps adding a bit more to soothe his temper?”
Baron Jamison shook his head. “I’d have to collect the whole tax all over again. You know as well as I that the serfs’ backs are near to broken with their own troubles. The barley crop wasn’t good, either. Nay, Jamie, I cannot demand again.”
Jamie nodded. She tried to hide her disappointment. She’d hoped there was still a little of the collection left, but her father’s answer confirmed her fear that it was all gone.
“Emmett said Papa used up all the coins,” Mary whispered.
“Emmett is just like an old woman carrying tales,” Jamie countered.
“Aye,” their father agreed. “He’s always been one to taint the truth. Pay no attention to his rantings,” he added.
“Papa? Why was I excluded?” Jamie asked. “Did the king forget you had four daughters?”
“No, no,” the baron rushed out. He hastily turned his gaze from his daughter to his goblet, for he feared his youngest would see the truth in his eyes. King Henry hadn’t excluded Jamie. He’d used the word “daughters” in his message. Baron Jamison, knowing he’d never be able to get along without his youngest taking care of him, had made the decision himself to exclude her. He thought his plan was most cunning. “The king named only Maudie’s daughters,” he announced.
“Well, that certainly doesn’t make any sense to me,” Agnes remarked between sniffles.
“Perhaps it’s because Jamie’s the youngest,” Mary suggested. She shrugged, then added, “Who can know what’s in our king’s mind? Just be thankful, Jamie, that you weren’t included in his order. Why, if you were chosen you couldn’t marry your Andrew.”
“That’s the reason,” Agnes interjected. “Baron Andrew is so powerful and well liked. He told us so. He must have swayed our king’s mind. Everyone knows how smitten Andrew is with you, Jamie.”